Dogfight

Dogfight - 3

Skull Basher

I all happened in slow motion, making my smile wryly as I thought of all those black and white fight scenes in crappy movies, showing the ripple of a boxer's cheek when he gets punched, saliva spraying into the air in an artistic wave, eyes wide as the crowd goes wild, much like the crowd at the Doghouse tonight. It was fully packed, looking like a huge mosh pit surrounding a 360 degree fight ring, enclosed by metal fencing and topped with unsightly barbed wire that curled around metal barring in stiff coils like a serpent wrapping around its prey.

I licked my slightly cracked lips, wetting the skin as I sucked in a deep breath, before exhaling on my painted nails as I walked out onto the 'stage'. This was my show, my fight, my win. Big Ben was nothing but an obstacle, a petty opponent who, like many others, underestimated my ability since I was smaller, slighter, and less intimidating than most.

Big Ben was an ugly thing, a large, bulky man who looks to be around thirty-years-old, but that was most likely because of his hideous appearance. He was probably only 25 at the most, but towered over my short stature at a whopping 195 centimetres, almost a few heads taller than me, and definitely stockier. Ropes of muscle wrapped around his big-boned arms, and he flexed, the veins popping out in a ghastly manner as he raised them, his chubby fingers twiddling his handle-bar moustache as he eyed me like I was a fucking steak on a silver platter slathered in greasy sauce with a side of chips. His abs were protruding from his stomach, the indents of every separate muscle being shown through the tight fitting singlet top he was wearing, the once white fabric stained with blotches of red.

The crowd cheered, their voices siding with Big Ben, who smirked as he rolled his shoulders, jerking a stubby finger in my direction before turning it up, giving me the bird as the crowd went wild, a mixture of boos and cheers. I scoffed, pretended to wipe off his grime, before cracking my knuckles, jumping up and down slightly on the spring-ridden ground of the ring as I pulled up my striped fingerless gloves.

I could feel the adrenaline bubble inside my stomach, rising up as I smiled, glancing at the riled up crowd who too underestimated me. All the better. I would see their faces drop, astounded as they saw the underdog, the lanky, thin and weak-looking boy complete serve Big Ben's ass to him on a gold plate.

The umpire, who wasn't a normal umpire who cared for the welfare of the competitors (the didn't stop the fight until some... died, or until someone gave in. But nobody usually gave in- it was considered weak, pathetic and everybody had egos in this shit hole, even me, but I got a kick from making them beg) walked into the ring, wearing all black and a purple bandana. They looked at both of us, asking us whether we were ready or not, which we both nodded to. He raised his arm, the crowd's cheering picking up in volume and pitch, as he dropped his hand. Neither Big Ben nor I moved, before he pointed a finger at me again, his neanderthal mouth moving in the words "You're dead." I scoffed, before crossing my arms over my chest, feigning a yawn as his face turned bright red.

"Come at me," I said softly, and he growled, before hurtling forward his arms out in front of him to grab me in a death grip. How naive. As he neared, the adrenaline pumping through my veins hit my brain, and I smirked. "Got you, you mother fucker," I murmured, before ducking down, his arms flailing harmlessly over my head as I brought myself under him, pushing up with all my strength to send him off balance, body falling back but still upright. Stubborn son of a bitch.

I took a breath before slamming my fist into his solar plexus, the air escaping his lips as his eyes widened in fear as I landed another blow to his rib cage, no doubt shattering at least three. I caught his ankle with my foot, his heavy body crumpling to the ground before i mounted him, my fists planting blow after blow to his already disfigured face as he tried to scream something out, the crowd going wild. I slowed my punched as his head lulled slightly, but he was still conscious, his mouth moving painfully as blood seeped from the split lip.

"Beg for it," I hissed, and he growled something incoherent back, but I was smart enough to know it was something along the lines of "God fuck yourself, brat." I shrugged, pulling off my gloves that had softened some blows, throwing them to the edge of the ring. I cracked my knuckles and my neck, before grabbing him around the neck, licking my lips. "Now, beg."

"F-Fuck y- ack!" he gasped, as I tightened my grip, strangling him with my bare hands, my eyes wild and livid and absolutely monstrous.

"Beg," I said, and his eyes widened as they started to lose their shine, and I laughed. "Weak." I dropped him as he gasped for breath, before the umpire grabbed my arm, throwing it up into the air.

"Here's your winner!" he shouted, and the crowd paused, watching me, before one started clapping, the applause, cheers, wolf-whistles and cat calls resonating through the large room. I smirked as the crowd roared my name.

"Renny! Renny! Renny!" they cheered, as I raised my other arm in victory, the feeling of being noticed making me high on satisfaction, as well as the thought of being able to bring home a shit load of cash.

"Renny, wake up," a voice whispered, as the crowd started to fizzle, becoming blurry, like an old television set. "Renny."

"Mr Frayer," the teacher said, and I looked up, yawning before uttering a low "here." The teacher frowned, starting to talk at a rapid pace about responsibilities, but to be honest I zoned out after the first word. I heard Brick sign from behind me, his chair scraping as he lounged in his seat.

Brick was... a friend, but not really. He identified himself as my friend, but honestly, we were just two people who started to hang out because we had no one else. We sat together at lunch, but we didn't talk. People at school may see us as best friends, but we were nothing of the sort. Like I said, two people who just happened to sit at the same table in the cafeteria.

And his name wasn't really Brick either. I couldn't even remember his real name. The nickname had stuck when I saw him running laps of his block, since his small, suburban house was on the way from my apartment to school. He had been holding a brick at the time, a puffing, out-of-breath asthmatic mess as he ran. His mother, who had decreed him much too lazy, had ordered him to run laps around his block until he collapsed, and from then on I just knew him as Brick.

I felt a pair of eyes on me, and I knew it wasn't Brick. You could tell- Brick's eyes were unashamed, completely lacking any form of decency. He stared at you without any thoughts of how it must make you uncomfortable, but I had gotten used to it. This gaze, however, was stealthy and foreign.

I rested my head on my arms and closed them for a moment, before peeling them apart to look at the staring perpetrator. And oh, wasn't that person a big slap in the face.

Blake Nichols, star of the athletics team and, without any better or simpler words, the King of the school. And a complete jackass, from what I've observed. He beat people who were weaker than him, with no other purpose than to get a kick out of is and a few measly bucks from poor, less important kids than him. I beat people up, but I had a reason, even if it is a somewhat messed up one. At times I hated my dad, for making me live life like this, but he was still my dad. I loved him, even if he treated me like shit. I loved him, even when he didn't look at me, at the real me. I wanted him to look at me, and maybe, maybe if I kept being a son useful to him he would some day see me. Blake Nichols was just an asshole, picking on people who didn't have the skills to defend themselves.

I hated people like that.

I arrived at J.C.'s apartment at four pm sharp, and he was lounging around on his couch watching some kid's cartoon, making my snicker as I dumped my bags behind the back rest of his couch.

"The bathroom is stinking like shit," he said, and I sighed, stretching my limbs. J.C. had a miniature training gym in hit two-storey flat/apartment, and he let me borrow it whenever I wanted to as long as I cleaned his place for him. A maid, you could say, but it was worth it as long as he didn't make me wear the skimpy maid uniform he had ordered online.

I walked into the gym, gazing lovingly at the equipment set up neatly, and punched the bag. I heard J.C.'s laugh from behind me as he grabbed my arm.

"Did you forget what I taught you last week?" he grinned, and I rolled my eyes, punching the bag again, changing my angle slightly he he nodded. "Better, but not perfect."

"Oh, gag on a sock, will you?" I joked, and he laughed again, holding the bag as I kicked it. It seemed like an ordinary, shit-filled day, but I was dead wrong. Something would happen, something that would change my life.

And it had everything to do with Blake Nichols.